


Bathed in Golden Syrup Sunlight

by Living_Underground



Category: The X-Files
Genre: Bad Poetry, F/M, I don't know, I mean, Poetry, Post-Movie: The X-Files: I Want To Believe (2008), by the beach, definitely bad, is it even really poetry?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-28
Updated: 2020-04-28
Packaged: 2021-03-02 05:47:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 428
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23899987
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Living_Underground/pseuds/Living_Underground
Summary: A poem of sorts post-IWTB, on the balcony of a little secluded island house overlooking the beach.
Relationships: Fox Mulder/Dana Scully
Comments: 6
Kudos: 6





	Bathed in Golden Syrup Sunlight

**Author's Note:**

> I was reading Pablo Neruda poems and this just...came to me. 
> 
> I never share my poetry. Ever. Because it is never very good. It is always all over the place. But then that is just my writing. But then I worry that poetry should be much more...structured.

Golden syrup sunlight bathes bare skin

as they coil in their honeysuckled shelter.

The distant hiss of sea on sand echoes up from the beach,

lulling their post-coital bliss further into a sleepy haze.

Her legs wrap around his torso

and her breasts pillow his head.

Fingers thread through dark hair

and warm hands encase slim ankles,

thumbs pressing into the arches of dainty feet.

A hum emitted: content.

Salty air begins to chill,

and the grabbing of a blanket is considered

before being neglected

– there are other ways to create heat.

They have enough heat already

– has always been enough heat between the two of them.

They could melt ice caps with it.

Could thaw Antarctica

(they tried it once, almost succeeded).

Maybe there is too much of it.

Maybe one day it will burn them to ashes,

leaving them in the cold and dark for good.

But for now weathered, paint-peeling balustrades

frame them in the light, keeping

a snapshot of them in the sunset.

She muses that there are far too few photographs

of them together; far too little proof

of their happiness.

They are not ones to display their love openly

– Love in a Government Agency will do that to you.

But their bodies provide proof to one another:

Amongst freckles

scars and stretchmarks illustrate

the story of them;

mark the path of their love.

He once claimed he could read those freckles like constellations, tell their fortune through the stars that litter her body.

Maybe he can.

Maybe she believes him.

She wants to,

at least.

In his body she sees the past.

Sees corpses and headstones

and miraculous gasps of air into dead lungs.

In his body she sees what could have been.

Sees a would-be tee-ball coach

and pancakes around the full breakfast table.

In his body she sees potential.

Sees lazy Sunday mornings,

sex on the kitchen tiles.

Sees him disappearing back into his head again,

failing them both once more

in her inability to ground him.

One of her hands has found its way

to his torso, curling into his chest hair.

He can hear her thinking.

Feel the pattern of her thoughts

in the patterns she is tracing onto his skin.

He wants her to stop.

Just for now.

Maybe forever.

A press of lips to her wrist.

A press of lips to the life flowing through her.

A promise.

This time he’ll make it work.

He’ll stay present.

He’ll stay alive.

A kiss to the crook of her elbow.

A tease.

A promise of more to come.

**Author's Note:**

> Was it terrible? (please don't answer that too harshly, I haven't slept and WILL cry. I will cry if you say nice things, too, probably.)


End file.
